


Future/present.

by orange_crushed



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-15
Updated: 2011-04-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:52:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He waves as they take off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future/present.

Rose insists on bringing a gift. "Otherwise," she says, "it feels like trespassing."

"Fair point. Considering it is, in fact, trespassing."

"I'm not arguing it before the bench," she says, and tightens his tie somewhat more than she could. "I said it _feels_ like trespassing. _Feels_." He grins and and hums and slides his hand along her hip, relishes the sensation of warm satin under his fingers and the warmer girl beneath. He raises an eyebrow meaningfully. "Very funny," she says, but her lips are quirking upwards. "What did you get, anyway?" He lifts off from his comfortable lean against the console to rummage through the Tesco's bag.

"Three cake pans and a bag of grapes," he says, presenting them with a flourish. "Basically, all you need to start a solid marriage. Mix a cake, pop it in the oven, eat the grapes while you wait." Rose stares at him until he fidgets, involuntarily. "They were out of animal-shaped cookie jars."

"Remind me," says Rose, "to write you a list for my birthday."

They sneak in through the garden gate, because it's too tempting not to; such a pretty little place with trellises and climbing vines and bored kids with undone ties running aimlessly along the paths. Rose has never been to a village wedding and they were in the neighborhood anyway, the neighborhood being Earth. He'd been aiming for France; sometime in the seventeenth century, as Rose would look absolutely smashing tucked in a tiny painted corner of a Fragonard; and missed completely. Oh, well. He'd let her pick the next spot from a spinning plastic globe she'd found in the wardrobe room. Though he probably wouldn't say as much out loud, he saw nothing wrong with finding an opportunity to get her into formal wear. She's leaning over to peek through the back door now, into the party room, tea-colored skirt sliding up to show the backs of her legs. "Coast is clear," she says, giggling, and they slip into the crowd.

There's red and white balloons and miniature beef wellingtons and quiches the size of thumbnails and really good punch, which he slurps with gusto. They drop their pink-wrapped parcel and the basket of grapes on the gift table just as the DJ turns up the volume on _Twist & Shout_, and he spins her in his arms until she's breathless and laughing. They shake hands with elderly family members, introducing themselves as friends of the bride's cousin or cousins of the bride's friend as they feel like it.

"Another doctor?" says a white-haired woman in a grey shawl. She smiles and pats his hand and turns to her companions. "I told you, the Ponds are well-off."

"It's like a medical convention in here," someone jokes.

"Well, you know what they say," he starts to reply, and then he stops, because something on the dance floor catches his attention. It's a man in a tuxedo and a long white scarf, standing in the center of the dance floor while kids crowd around him waving their arms in the air, some silly new dance from the television. It wouldn't be odd except that it is odd, his motionless stare in the direction of the cake table. The Doctor turns to look at what he's looking at, and then he is looking at Rose. He looks back to the man on the dance floor, and then back at Rose. "Oh," he says, mostly to himself.

"What do they say, Doctor?" they're asking him, but he's already moving away through the crowd, excusing himself as he bumps tables and elbows, quietly turning Rose away from an animated conversation about hemlines and towards the exit.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says, too lightly. "Nothing at all." She protests and he steers her towards the back door, pushing it open for her and urging her through. In another moment they'll be down the path and out of here, away from- this. "Just had a sudden craving for Urulien hash. Amazing stuff, did you know they prepare it three days ahead of time from the root of-"

"Doctor," she says firmly, planting her feet at the edge of a flowerbed. "Tell me. Is it this place?" She glances around. "Did you recognize someone?"

"In a manner of speaking," he says. He takes her hand and tugs it and she follows, concern plain on her face. It's alright, just a hiccup in navigation and easily ignored, if they leave now. He thinks about distracting her, taking her someplace dazzling, and he starts to say-

"Rose."

She turns, letting go of his hand.

The man on the dance floor is now the man in the garden, standing with his hat in his hand on the cobblestone path, his scarf askew and his hair brushing into his eyes. He's the one who spoke, who said her name with foreign clarity, like he was learning how to say it all over again. Rose stops beside the Doctor and stares at him.

"Do I know you?" she asks. The man in the tuxedo grins with manic intensity.

"Just wanted to say it," he tells her. "Rose," he says again. "Sounds different, doesn't it. Just- trying it out," he says. "One more time." Rose puts a hand to her throat. She looks back up at the Doctor with a question in her eyes, though he can see her answering it herself. Against his better judgment he nods. She turns to face the other man and he puts a hand up in defense. "Don't," he says. "Don't ask, and don't- because you would, wouldn't you, you always do, you troublemaker." He looks pained. "It's alright. You should go."

"Probably," she says. And then she strides forward and throws herself at him, wraps her arms around his neck and holds tight. His arms come up stiffly and then close around her too gently, unsure and eager. There's the pounding sound of dance music through the windows and kids yelling from behind the shed, and the Doctor is anxiously aware of how close their timelines are, how much they've crossed already and how long they'll knot into each other from now on, this startling new part of himself that he has no interest in thinking about. He waits and glares with his hands in his pockets, trying to impress upon his future self how serious this all is. Which, if he thought about it for a second, would be totally ridiculous. Rose lets go and they both lean back unsteadily, giggling nervously and brushing the hair out of their faces. "Alright," she says, stepping away. "It's time we were going."

They walk away and Rose slips her hand into his, but she doesn't look back. Neither does he, until they are safely at the TARDIS doors and she's gone in. He looks over his shoulder and the other man is still there with that enormous hat in his hand, smiling crookedly to himself.

He waves as they take off.

 

 

Later, much later, Rory sits beside the Doctor in a folding chair and watches Amy circle the dance floor at the head of the conga. Rory is munching a handful of grapes and humming along under his breath, and there's a red flush in his cheeks from the champagne. He looks like the happiest person alive. "Friends of yours?" Rory asks. "I saw them come in. I was a little surprised at first but these are delicious. A perfect gift, if you ask me." He chews and swallows. "They looked nice."

"The grapes?"

"Your friends."

"Ah." He smiles to himself. He remembers it now, a recollection settling comfortably on him like a blanket, her warm laughter in the console room, the sound of silk sliding down and her hair falling into his eyes. He brushes it away for now, letting it sink further down into memory, where it brightens everything in sight. "Nice," he murmurs, and looks out across the floor at Amy, at everyone, dancing for the sake of dancing, while they are still here. "Yes, they are," he says.

He joins the conga line.


End file.
